A Watery Grave (19 page)

The last thing Wiki wanted was for the
Swallow
to be separated from the rest of the ships—but instinct told him there was something else the matter as well. He studied the familiar scatter of bright stars and sniffed the air. There was the usual smell of salt from the sea and pitch from the rigging, but there was an oiliness about the atmosphere he did not like.

Slowly, he slid down to deck hand over hand along a backstay, his ankles crossed over the tarry rope. When his feet touched the planks he looked about for the officer on watch, but the quarterdeck was deserted. There was just the man at the helm, who was watching him curiously.

He was Michael, a boy from New Bedford who had gone one voyage on a whaler before joining the navy. They hadn't sailed together before, but they knew people in common, and Michael was accustomed to seeing Wiki doing seaman's duties on the
Swallow.
Wiki arrived alongside him, keeping his manner casual, and looked at the binnacle compass. Their course was more east than he had anticipated, while the bad weather he sensed was coming from the north.

He looked up at the complaining spanker boom and observed lightly, “That spar needs a bucket of water. I'll take the helm for a spell, if you like, so you can give it a drink.”

Michael looked surprised but readily gave over the wheel. Wiki guessed the lad could do with a drink himself. He saw the boy walk forward through the darkness to the scuttlebutt by the fore hatch, swig down a beaker of water, and after that, relieve himself over the bows. Then he watched Michael drop a bucket into the sea for water to throw over the jaws of the spanker boom.

Meantime, Wiki worked and tested the wheel, finding, as he had suspected, that the brig was crabbing badly. The feel of her was even stiffer than he had expected; in fact, every jerk and quiver that emanated up from the rudder made him feel still more uneasy. Then Michael arrived back on the quarterdeck. Wiki watched him as he clambered onto the rail, stood there poised, braced himself, and tossed the water upward. Miraculously, the boom's groaning stopped.

Michael jumped down. Wiki gave back the helm, saying, “There's a big under swell setting her to leeward, rather more east than she should be.” He had already brought the wheel up a couple of points and hoped the lad would follow suit.

Then he walked forward toward the outline of the man on lookout in the bow, who stood poised between the knightheads. The smooth, muscular, bare-chested silhouette had led him to believe it was Sua, the huge Samoan, but as he drew near Wiki realized to his surprise that it was a Polynesian he had never seen before. Another casualty of Captain Wilkes's trick of reassigning men all over the fleet, he mused.

This Pacific Islander was not as large as Sua but stoutly built just the same. When Wiki arrived alongside him, he was gazing across the glassy black sea to the north horizon, swaying easily on his broad bare feet, but seeming very alert. He was wearing trousers, so Wiki could not see what tattooing he might have on his legs; but when the man turned his head, he greeted Wiki in Samoan.

They introduced themselves quietly and briefly, omitting most of the ritual. Sua's sailor name was Jack Polo, while this fellow had been dubbed Jack Savvy. Only Wilkes, mused Wiki wryly, understanding the implications of the names—that one came from the island of Upolu and the other from the island of Savai'i—would so blindly put men of the same race, but of differing tribes, in the same forecastle. However, most of his attention was on the lightning that was playing low down on the northern horizon.

Dark shadows were streaming across the stars. Jack Savvy was looking at the veiled sky as well. “Not good,” he said, and hunkered down, placed the flat of his hand on the deck, and seemed to listen to what the hull was saying. After a long moment he straightened. “Not good,” he said again.

Wiki nodded. He wondered what the barometer read but couldn't check, as it was in the captain's cabin. Was Forsythe keeping an eye on it? He felt doubtful. The brig abruptly gave a heavier roll, and Wiki felt a fine rain dash across his face. He paused for thought, acutely conscious that he had no right to give orders, but then said in Samoan, “I'll take a turn around the deck and make sure everything's snug and secure.”

“I'll come with thee,” the man from Savai'i said.

“Better not—you're on lookout duty. It's not a good idea to leave your post for long. I'll stand in your place a moment while you rouse up someone from below.”

Wiki saw the Samoan nod. When he came back from the forecastle, Sua, predictably, was the one with him. At home they might be in opposing tribes, but on a Yankee ship they were shipmates with much in common. Together, Wiki and the bigger Samoan went around waking up the men who were supposed to be on watch but had been peacefully asleep in corners instead. Then they set about securing loose gear, including taking down an awning and furling it tight.

The
Swallow
was rolling still more heavily by the time they had finished. The puffs of wind were coming at shorter intervals, and with each gust the spats of rain were getting thicker. What in the name of all the spirits, Wiki wondered, was Forsythe thinking? Surely, particularly considering that his promotion to the command was so new, he should have displayed more concern for his ship. But there had been no movement from the captain's quarters. Either Forsythe and Kingman were roistering still, albeit very quietly, or else—more likely—each had retired to his berth.

He said to the big Samoan, “Who is the officer on watch?”

Sua shrugged, looked around, and said, “The bo'sun?”

Wiki said, “Better rouse him up.”

The boatswain, a good man and a crony of Midshipman Erskine's, was a stickler for the rules. When he came up rubbing bleary eyes, Wiki expected to be roundly reprimanded. However, he seemed to be just as unhappy that Erskine was no longer on the brig as Wiki was at Rochester's demotion, and just as alarmed that there should be no officer in charge of the watch. He looked about, studied the sails and the sea, and nodded. Then he went and stood by the helm, his left fist clutching the weather shrouds, so much in command of the quarterdeck that it would have been tactless of Wiki to remain.

The saloon at the bottom of the companionway was still empty. The plates and mugs had been taken away, but otherwise it looked just the same as he had left it. Wiki went into his stateroom and went to bed—without removing his clothes. Listening to the gusts of wind whining about the rigging, it seemed prudent to him to turn in all standing.

He didn't expect to sleep much, but instead dropped at once into a heavy slumber, to be abruptly woken by shouting in Samoan, accompanied by loud banging on the deck above his head.

Both Samoans were yelling, their shouts panic-stricken. After a confused moment he understood what they were so urgently trying to tell him. Wiki tumbled out of bed and through the door into the saloon, crashing against Forsythe. It was very dark. The single lamp dashed back and forth on its hook, throwing enormous shadows. A clattering came from the pantry, where every dish and spoon was on the move.

The lieutenant seemed abruptly sobered. He snapped, “What the hell is happening? What the devil are those savages bellowing?”

Wiki said briefly, “Man overboard—the bo'sun.” Without waiting for an answer he dashed up the companionway.

When the door slammed open he stopped short involuntarily, pinned in the doorway by a vicious gust of wind. Above, the rigging was thrumming and whistling. The decks were awash, and while he stood there a torrent sloshed past his legs and down the stairs. In the wild blackness of the deck he could glimpse men struggling with wet snapping ropes forward, and other men gathered at the amidships rail.

Wiki felt Forsythe shove on his back at the same time as the gust let go and stumbled headlong out into the storm-wracked night. The brig was flying under just a couple of rags of canvas on the topsail yards, pursued by huge waves that came rolling in from the north. The full moon flickered in and out as clouds scurried across its face, and Wiki could glimpse the frightened expressions of the two men at the helm who were together struggling to hold the brig on her course. Why the hell hadn't the boatswain sent someone to fetch Captain—
Captain,
for God's sake!—Forsythe up to deck before the brig had sailed into such danger? Then Wiki understood that the storm he and the Samoans had sensed lying just over the horizon had come all at once, squalling down upon them.

Thunder grumbled, looming closer, closer. Then there was a louder clap, so deafening Wiki's eardrums popped. Lightning fizzed sharply, destroying his night vision for a moment, and the wind gusted. Then rain came out of the blackness, hissing down with malignant force, tossed back and forth like a solid, living curtain with the gusts. Waves materialized, lifted, crashed over the stern, and rushed in cascades along the deck. The brig was fleeing before the storm, but the storm was winning the race.

Wiki worked his way to the group at the rail in short rushes, timing his movements to keep his footing on the tossing deck. Both Samoans were there, still yelling in their native tongue, pointing at a figure that was floating just a dozen yards away. The brig had unexpectedly dipped her starboard rail under the water with a particularly hard gust—every man on deck had been thrown sprawling. All the rest had finished up in the scuppers; but when they had struggled to their feet again, it was to find that the boatswain had been washed into the hungry sea.

Intermittent moonlight flickered over the small, distant figure, now being drawn past the stern of the vessel. Men, both Samoan and English, were yelling at the tops of their voices and struggling aft to reach out over the taffrail. But there was nothing that could be done—rescue was impossible. Bringing the
Swallow
about would simply spell a swift end to the brig, and there was no way a boat could live in that sea.

Then, to Wiki's amazement, one of the enormous waves picked up the boatswain and swirled the struggling figure closer. For an endless moment the boatswain was poised on the foaming crest while the wave lifted, lifted, towering above the stern of the brig—and then, like a man spitting out a cherry stone, the wave threw the boatswain over the quarter bulwarks, rushing on to foam along the starboard side.

The body crashed up against a gun and finally stopped, wedged by the carriage. Somehow Wiki struggled up to where the old boatswain lay stunned and gasping, to find he was indubitably alive. As he gripped the boatswain's shoulders and heaved, Wiki thought that was the second miraculous escape he had witnessed—but there was still the question of whether the
Swallow
would survive the night.

Forsythe said curtly in his ear, “Get that man below and give him a glass of grog.” Then the lieutenant took charge of the deck, barking out a stream of curt orders that flew forward in the shrieking wind. Took charge just as if the
Swallow
had not got into these dire straits because of the captain's lack of responsibility. George Rochester had called Forsythe a bad seaman, Wiki remembered. His poor judgment on the
Vincennes
would certainly have killed Jim Powell if Rochester hadn't interfered, and the brig would most surely have been lost if the Samoans had not roused their inattentive captain by hammering on the skylight and yelling out to Wiki.

However, half drunk though he might be, Lieutenant Forsythe rose to the challenge. All night the
Swallow
rolled and tumbled, the gale whistling about her, the hours punctuated with the howling of the wind, urgent shouting, and the thump of feet and the dragging of canvas and ropes as the men struggled to follow his orders. Everyone slipped and fell constantly, but Forsythe hung on, an indomitable fist gripping the vibrating shrouds.

When at last dawn crept over the horizon the sky had a wild and terrifying appearance. Great waves were still pursuing the brig as she scudded before the gale, but the
Swallow
lived. The deck was a grim sight, littered with torn rigging and damaged spars, but the brig sailed on as bravely as before. As the day went by the wind gradually diminished, and by sunset the
Swallow
was under full sail. At last, after eighteen hours of incessant labor, the order, “That will do, the watch,” was given, and half the crew could go below and seek some rest—but still Lieutenant Forsythe clung to his station on the quarterdeck. It was not until the second watch was sent below that he went down to seek his own berth.

The following morning, however, Wiki found that Rochester's second assessment—that Forsythe was a tyrant—was right on the mark. Four bells had just struck, and Wiki was lying on his berth with his feet propped up on the locker that intruded so on his bed space, reading a book, when he heard the peremptory shout for all hands on deck. He frowned, thinking that it might be time for the morning ration of grog, but that the tone of the order did not seem quite right. Swinging down his legs, he stood up, straightened, ducked under a beam, and padded up the stairs.

When he opened the door at the top of the companionway all the men were assembled in the waist, and the atmosphere of stifled rage and disgust was almost palpable. He could see hands curled into fists. The men stood, brace legged, in hostile attitudes, and no one spoke or moved.

Then Wiki took in the scene on the quarterdeck, and his breath hissed out with shock. The two Samoans were triced up in the rigging. Their shirts were pulled down off their backs and hanging down over their spread legs, and their outstretched arms were tied high in the shrouds so that their bare toes just touched the planks. When the brig rolled they grunted as they struggled to keep the wrenching weight off their wrists. Jack Savvy let out a faint whine of pain.

Lieutenant Forsythe, in full dress uniform, the gold epaulette on his right shoulder glinting, stood facing the crew, his eyes narrowed, his right hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Passed Midshipman Kingman, also in full dress rig, stood beside him, a multiple lash held loosely in his bone-thin, big-knuckled hands. Nine thin plaits of rope trailed from the handle, each knotted at the working end. This, Wiki realized with horror and disgust, was the navy's notorious cat-o'-nine-tails.